


silver crescents blinked

by Silkblood



Series: Goretober 2018 [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Goretober, Goretober 2018, Implied/Referenced Violence, Scars, a bit graphic language, light gore, little blood, metaphorical shit, poor attempt at somewhat poetic prose, uuuuh this is kinda vague so i'm pretty bad at rating it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 17:46:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16269242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silkblood/pseuds/Silkblood
Summary: No body was mounted on him, no sculpture constructed with his ribs as platform. But a soul had been slain free, on his very limbs.





	silver crescents blinked

**Author's Note:**

> Day 2: scars. From celestial-prince02's goretober list. Have this lil thing cause i cant shut up about abby

Crescents looked at him like vampire eyes, all set up in the black night sky. The woods are to be lost in and fear is to be washed clean, return to the ancestral song of emotion.  
Silver crescents blinked, leaving him no hope and no truth to run from; all truth was here, awfully present and clear and petrifying in its factuality. There, he laid, on the fresh and soft ground, dirt of the forest sweeping in between the cracks of his bones, somehow exposed; somehow always exposed.  
No body was mounted on him, no sculpture constructed with his ribs as platform. But a soul had been slain free, on his very limbs. Altar for kills, his chest; tools for the sacrifice, his hands; and tomb to store the lost in: his stomach was marked with the scar of his fright, absolved of selfishness, the smile laughed with sharp teeth. There, he laid on the ground of the forest, wolves in the distance teaching mercy to their cubs, all dead. He caressed the crescent with his crooked hand, favored the smell of the putrefied green trees, and all the life he lent. He caressed the smile, and the grin and the frown, crying, endeared, onto the fresh ground. The crescent ripped under his fingertips, sounding like crackling fire, burning cellulose. He screamed, but no sound came out of his mouth for the scar cried harder, monsters crawling out of it like wild roots searching for nutrition and water. But then, upon closer inspection, there was wonderment: for what the thing that crawled represented was no monster; she spoke quietly, of love and happiness like she meant it; she emerged from his belly till the waist, she turned around and saw him being her garden; she touched her bloody ground, the dirt from which she had been born, she felt his intestines twisting around her hips in an early embrace; she spoke again and, this time, she was afraid; she touched the edges of his scar, carefully recounted the parts where it was sewed with a finger sliding on it, she took her finger to her lips and told him to be quiet; she licked the red finger clean; baptism had never been this holy; baptism had never been this cruel.

The flesh made sounds of being tired, abused as it was by its desire.  
Here an angel was born. Here.  
With tearful rage he closed the crescent again. He shut his lips and swore to keep it in. He enshrined souls from that day.


End file.
